Tragon Moon

By Christina Leonard

Raena and Abby have relied on one another for as long as they can remember. Never knowing their parents and being shuffled through the foster care system, they quickly came to realize they are the only people they can count on. But when Abby doesn’t come home from work one night, Raena is left to take care of her nephew, Jaxon, and shoulder all of the responsibilities she once shared with her sister. She believes she has everything under control until her landlord tells her she must pay three months' worth of back rent before the end of the month, or she and Jax will be out on the street.
One night, while working her new second job at Room 86, Raena meets King Wade of Maranetta and his two sons, Lowen and Tyde. He extends an offer to Raena to work for him in Maranetta when he hears of her troubles, promising to take care of her and Jax in return. She knows his offer sounds too good to be true, but she is determined to keep Jax with her and out of the system she grew up in at all costs. Even if that means leaving New York and putting her trust in someone she’s never met. What Raena doesn’t know is the world of powers and long-kept secrets that await her around every corner of King Wade’s palace and the deeply rooted connection she has to the family who lives there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Oct 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798891260399

Christina Leonard

Christina Leonard was born and raised in Southern New Jersey, where she lives with her family and four cats. After graduating in 2022 with her master's degree in Publishing from Pace University in New York City, her master's thesis was published in Publishing Research Quarterly. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with friends and family, including her five nieces and nephews. Tragon Moon is her debut novel.

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Tragon Moon

by

Christina Leonard

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © 2023 Christina Leonard

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9798891260382

eBook ISBN: 9798891260399

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, October 2, 2023

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover: Cover Designs by Karen

https://www.cover-designs-by-karen.com

Editor: Karen Fuller

Chapter 1

A knock on my door at 7:34 a.m. on a Tuesday cannot bring anything good with it. I set my coffee down on the counter and tear my eyes away from the traffic that’s already at a standstill below. Through my peephole, I see the top of a familiar head.

Good morning, Mr. Willis. What are you dressed up for today? I ask my landlord. He is a short and stocky man with a thick head of black hair that he always parts on the right. His loose fitting suit is a change from his normal gray tank top and jeans.

You’re late on your rent again, Rae. No pleasantries today.

I know, I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger. Can you give me just a little longer? Please? I bat my eyes the way Abby taught me and send up a silent prayer that it works.

Raena, you do this every time.

Mr. Willis, please. I get paid next week, and I promise it will all go to you. I clasp my hands together in front of my torso in a praying motion, eyes big.

He contemplates my offer or begging rather and relents. Fine, he sighs, shaking his head. You have until the end of the week to get me the last two months’ rent, which I already discounted for you, by the way. That’s $1,800. If you don’t, Rae, I’m sorry you guys are out.

Thank you, Mr. Willis. I promise. Now tell me, what are you all dressed up for? I exhale in momentary relief, motioning to the wrinkled suit.

A small blush spreads across his cheeks, eyes instantly lighting up at my curiosity. Oh, this? He flattens out some wrinkles that have folded across his stomach, smiling. I’m going to my daughter’s graduation later. My little girl is off to college soon, and I wanna look nice for her. I even got her this.

From his inside pocket, Mr. Willis pulls out a box and flashes a beautiful necklace with a W engraved on the pendant that swings from the chain when he holds it up. It must be nice to have parents who adore you. Mr. Willis can be a bit of a mess, but he loves his daughter and never misses anything she does. I remember one time last year when she received an academic letter, he left me in charge of the office so he could drive to Philadelphia to see her shake hands with the superintendent of her school.

Well, you look dashing, sir, and I’m sure she’ll love it. I wish him a safe trip and wave him off before closing the door, doing my best to push down the feelings of bitterness and frustration. I appreciate everything Mr. Willis has done for us since Abby left, but I don’t know how I am going to conjure up nearly $2,000 in three days and make sure we have food to eat. When my sister left me and her son behind for wherever she is now, I don’t think she understood just what she was really doing.

Jaxon, I holler his name down the tiny hall to the bedroom we share. Breakfast. My voice echoes my frustration, which has no place being aimed at the little boy who is currently shuffling his tiny self to the kitchen table, still dressed in his dinosaur pajamas. My nephew did nothing but be born.

I’m here, Rae. What’s for breakfast? Jax flops down at the table and folds his hands in his lap, eyes fighting to stay open.

Cinnamon toast, kiddo. You okay with that? I grab the only two plates from a small particle board shelf I screwed into the wall against Mr. Willis’s wishes when we moved in. While I wait for the toast to pop up from the toaster, I peel nectarines and pour both Jax and myself a glass of apple juice. When the plates are filled with toast doused in cinnamon and butter that melts on contact with the warm bread and pre-peeled nectarines, I set them on the short square table. Jax nods a thank you and picks up a piece of toast, taking a big bite.

While I eat from my own plate and contemplate our finances, I notice a piece of floral wallpaper that is beginning to peel off the wall, revealing a coat of beige paint beneath. Our little apartment was okay for the two of us now, but the more Jax grows, this one bedroom apartment wasn’t going to cut it. How I managed to fit a small cot and a twin sized blow-up mattress in the bedroom is still beyond me. My appetite is suddenly gone, along with my ability to stomach the thought of us staying here forever. Out the window over the sink where I wash my plate, people scurry about below on their way either to or from work.

Jax, I’m gonna go get dressed. Finish up your breakfast so we can go.

In our bedroom, I pull on a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt from a pile of clothes on a stool in the corner of the room that the previous renters left behind. Two beds mean no room for fancy things like dressers or vanities. Kneeling on the edge of my mattress, I check my reflection in the dirty mirror that leans up against the wall behind the head of my bed, wiping my hands across my face with the hopes of removing any look of desperation before walking out into the world. It may be a cold outlook on the human race, but no one gives a damn how you feel. Outside of these walls where it’s just me and my sweet nephew, nobody cares that I’m doing my best with the hand dealt to us. Since I turned eighteen, I learned the true meaning of the saying ‘fake it till you make it.’ Besides, smiles get me more tips.

I take note of a small leak that must be somewhere in my bed as the edge sags with the pressure of my knee against it.

Shutting the door behind me, I pull my hair half up into a small ponytail and brush the remaining shoulder-length layer with my fingers. This apartment is feeling smaller with each breath I take, and each year Jax gets older, but I do my best to make it work.

All done, Jax smiles as he places his plate gently in the rusted, yellowish sink.

Go get dressed, hun. I’ll be waiting for you out here. Shuffle-running around the corner into the room, Jax closes the door behind him.

Let’s see, I mumble to myself as I sit on the small loveseat Abby bought when we moved in and turn on the TV. My day job might just be brewing coffee and taking orders from suits who need their morning pick me up, but when it’s across the street from the United Nations building, it pays to know who’s in town.

"King Wade of Maranetta arrived yesterday for meetings with U.S. government officials. While talks are unconfirmed, it is rumored that Maranetta is looking to become a new U.S. trade partner."

Royal visits are not necessarily rare, but I’ve never heard of Maranetta. I’ve seen the likes of princes with enchanting accents, heirs to international conglomerates, and once even a queen from a country I never learned about in school stopped in for a latte. All of these rich and powerful people walk through the doors of a tiny cafe and almost never leave tips. A high horse is a dangerous thing, and I would love to push at least one arrogant jerk off of theirs.

I click the TV off and roll my eyes. I guess this King and his country must not be that great, or at least very small if I’ve never heard of it.

Jax comes bounding out of the bedroom, dressed in his favorite purple and blue tie-dyed t-shirt and basketball shorts, gray sneakers tieing the outfit together. I grab his hand and my purse before locking the door behind us, Jax slinging his tiny backpack over his shoulder.

Outside of our building, the muggy heat of New York in June is grossly suffocating. Sweat already beads along my forehead, and my lungs are filled with fumes from taxi exhausts in seconds. Jax hums a tune as we cross the street, weaving through stopped yellow taxis and expensive looking SUVs, some honking for no reason and others honking out of morning frustrations.

Hi, Ms. April, Jax waves to his doe-eyed teacher as she meets us at the corner of the street. April’s a nice girl with long chocolate hair and a smile the size of the state we live in. Her green dress is covered in small white flowers that compliment her dark skin, and her fresh manicure, the color of the sky on a clear day, makes her picture perfect. Suddenly, I feel aware of the rip in the knee of my jeans and the knots I may have missed from only fingering through my hair.

Hi, Jaxson. How are you this morning? How’s Aunt Raena? Jax clutches her around her right leg and giggles.

We’re fine. How are you, Ms. April? That’s my sweet boy. For being a kid raising a kid, I must have done something right.

I’m well, thank you for asking. Aunt Raena must be teaching you good manners. She looks my way and winks.

I do my best, I smile back proudly. Alright, kiddo. Give me a hug before I go. I kneel down and bring Jax into my arms, giving him the biggest hug I can before he begs me to let him go.

I love you, Rae.

Love you, Jax.

With our goodbyes, I wait as I usually do for April and Jax to disappear around the corner and into the building where she and her mom run their daycare. April is a kind person who used to be best friends with Abby. When she left, April was devastated and offered to take Jax during the day while I worked, and I couldn’t turn that down. Once he was of age to be in daycare, I insisted on paying for his spot, but they knew I couldn’t afford their regular rates, so April’s mom offered me a discount.

Once Jax is safe and sound inside, I turn on my heels and, backtrack past our building and begin my walk to the cafe. The sun peeks out over the tops of the buildings, shining directly in my eyes, causing me to not see many of the pedestrian signs change to WALK. I need glasses more than I need oxygen these days, but working part-time jobs doesn’t give me the insurance I need, and glasses are expensive. I could send Jax to a community college for a jump-start class for the price of a generic pair.

Move it, lady, one man yells behind me. Some prick in a suit power walking his way to the executive office, where he probably cheats on his wife.

Shrugging off the encounter, I step off the curb, letting the disgruntled man pass. The sudden honk of a horn draws my attention to the left, though, as a loud and aggressive blast of noise sounds my way, nearly scaring the life out of me.

What the hell are you doing? I shout at the car with strange green and blue flags with an odd looking crest in the center sticking up from the back windows that are now inches from my knees. The driver raises his hands in a ‘move’ manner, making me stand even firmer where I am. No way I’m moving now. My hand smacks down on the hood while the other shoots up to point at the red light above us he was about to run through. Red means you don’t go.

Ma’am, please move out of the way. This is a government vehicle. A medium height man in a black suit with blackout sunglasses steps out of the driver’s seat, heading my way.

I really don’t care who you are. Don’t run people over. I cross my arms over my chest and huff at the nerve of this man.

Unexpectedly, the man gives me a toothy grin and a slight bow. I apologize, ma’am. I have never driven here before, and I was unaware of your procedures. Please, go about your day. I don’t know what to make of his odd behavior.

Just stop trying to plow through groups of people. It’s, quite frankly, not very nice. As much as I would have no problem standing in the middle of the road and arguing with this psycho, I do not want to end up on an I.D. Channel special, so I concede.

Yes, ma’am. The strange man bows forward once more before making quick work of jumping back in his car and staring forward at the light.

I can’t help but wonder where he comes from where he thought red meant go. Better yet, where he is from, even if you have the right away, you should run someone over. Not to mention those flags. He said they were government officials, but I’ve never seen that flag before. My eyebrows furrow in curiosity and from the increasing brightness of the sun, bringing on a headache.

Inside the cafe, I rub at my temples, my ever-growing morning headache on a warpath today. They don’t happen often, but between the heat, humidity, and almost being taken out at the knees by that strange man, my stress levels are through the roof.

There are already a few people sitting at the bar along the windows that look out over the sidewalk and two people in line ready to order.

Hey, Jul, sorry I’m late. I slide past my favorite co-worker, Julia, to grab my apron from the back of the employee only door and tie it around my waist. I pick up the empty cardboard cups that are marked with her usual purple ink marker, making the orders she had taken for the two customers. One black coffee and one iced caramel latte.

No problem, she waves. Your shift doesn’t start till nine anyway.

The extra time doesn’t hurt. I sing as I pour ice into the latte cup. The woman whose drink I am in the process of crafting watches me carefully from the other side of the counter.

You’re right. Oh, didn’t you start working at that club? Julia leans against the counter next to me, pointing out the windows in the general direction of the next street over.

I hand the woman her drink and wipe my hands on the towel sticking out of my apron pocket. She leaves no tip but has plenty of moans to give as she stirs in an extra packet of sugar at the customer counter. Yeah, I started last week.

What’s it like in there? I heard it’s kinda sleazy. I throw up an eyebrow, wondering who Julia would know, other than me, that is, who goes to that place. Julia wouldn’t last two seconds in a place like that with her bright pink t-shirt dress and pretty braid running down her back. Between her blond hair and good girl personality, I’m not sure what would get her into trouble the most. The people who regular Room 86 aren’t the friendliest. Actually, they might be too friendly. Someone like Julia wouldn’t be able to walk more than three steps in the door before an inebriated Wall Street lawyer offers to buy her a drink, his breath in her face containing enough alcohol to get her drunk by proxy.

It’s not that bad, I shrug. "I mean, it’s